


Good Eatin'

by irlmaxxor



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irlmaxxor/pseuds/irlmaxxor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accepting prompts over on Tumblr, an anon wanted older FiddleStan, wherein "Stan makes Fiddleford lots of food because he's not eaten enough for a long time and Fiddleford loves Stan's cooking."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Eatin'

**Author's Note:**

> *at full volume* _I’M ALWAYS A SLUT FOR OLD!FIDDLESTAN!_
> 
> I- I mean thanks for the prompt anon I loved writing this /u/

Ask anyone living under Stan’s roof and they’d tell you; of all the strange and outlandish occurrences in Gravity Falls, the last thing they expected to become a normal fixture in the Mystery Shack was the presence of Old Man McGucket.  


Somehow it had become expected, sauntering downstairs in the still morning air to find him sitting on the outside sofa, strumming at his banjo absentmindedly with a lazy smile plastered on his face; or smiling over from near the TV, elbow-deep in a laptop fiddling with circuitry and wiring while Stan hammered on about whatever “gullible idiots” he’d fleeced just half an hour earlier on a tour of the Shack. It was nice, serene even to see how far he’d come, how calm he was since regaining his broken memories. 

Not least for Stan. 

Wendy could’ve sworn she’d overheard him humming one of Fiddleford’s strange, southern tunes under his breath the other week. The twins skirted most questions, and if asked, Dipper would shake his head and tug at his hat, if only to obscure the red slowly creeping to his cheeks, sighing lightly whilst the brightest of smiles lit up his sister’s face. Mabel never gave a clear answer, but the wink accompanying her knowing grin spoke volumes.

“Psh, kids,” Stan was fond of muttering, “They’re just hormonal, they’ll get it when they’re older.”

A drowsy McGucket hummed in agreement from the dining table, swinging his legs and attempting to drag a brush through his beard. 

“It’s not like it’s hard…” 

“They’ll understand when they’re older, darlin’”

“Heh, yeah,” He was loath to admit it, but Stan’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of such a gentle “darlin’” in McGucket’s southern drawl. “Their loss.”

“Mmm.”

“Oi, Fidds.”

“Hm?”

“If all yer gonna say is “mm” and “hm”, y’might as well fall asleep at the table,” He smirked, pulling a chair around and sitting next to him. “You’re more zoned that normal, you feelin’ alright?”

“Mmm.”

“Fiddleford.”

“‘M fine, Stanley,” He finally mumbled in response, turning to look up at Stan with a heartfelt smile. “I’ve just been–” 

Whatever it was he had planned to say was abruptly cut off by a deep growl from his gut, and it was with a rushed ‘squeak’ and an embarrassed flail that Fiddleford hastily attempted to cover his stomach with his hands; as if it would somehow make the noise go away.

Stan paused, narrowing his eyes, corners of his mouth twitching and playing into a sly grin.

“You’ve just been what?”

“N-Nothin’,” He spluttered in response, glancing away and silently cursing himself. “Wouldn’t want t’trouble you, not after you’ve been so kind, doin’ all these things fer me since–”

This time, Stan cut him off; taking his hands in his own and raising them to his mouth, planting a quick kiss to his knuckles before speaking. 

“Psh, shuddup. Like I ever give anything away for free if it’s not deserved. You’re worth it.”

McGucket might have replied sooner, had a fit of butterflies not prevented him from doing so. He reluctantly let go of Stan’s hand, pressing it gently against his stomach again and turning a light shade of red. 

“Bless y’, Stanley…”

“It’s food you want, right?” Fiddleford looked on in glee as an adventurous smile spread across Stan’s face. He stood from the chair, rolled up his sleeve and flexed the “muscle” underneath, striding through to the kitchen with a boisterous announcement of “Stancakes for everybody!” Ignoring the groan of frustration from the twins in the next room over, he eagerly hopped off his chair and scampered after Stan, beaming. 

“C’mon, you can’t even wait ‘till I’m done?”

“I like watchin’ you work,” Was the muttered response, as McGucket stood just to his left, peering over the surface and he fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper. 

“Heh, a smile like that wouldn’t be outta’ place on Mabel, y’know.” Stan cracked a couple of eggs over a hot pan, glancing constantly at the hovering Fiddleford all the while. “There’s a “kid in a candy store” metaphor just waitin’ to happen here.”

“Eh, I ain’t good with sugar,” He admitted, chuckling to himself. “Or most foods, on account o’my startlin’ set of chompers…”

For a moment, his facial expression clouded over. Stan struggled to keep his smile bright, knowing all too well that Fiddleford struggled with life as a “reformed” individual. The memory-gun had changed much, and while memories and habits could be fixed, some changes were irreversible. Unfortunately, a near-toothless mouth fell under that category. 

“Is that why you’ve been skippin’ out on meals, Fidds?” He muttered, eyes trained on the pan. It was to Stan’s surprise when a laugh was his answer. 

“Maybe the food y’make is just so good, I can’t bear t’eat anythin’ lesser.” 

“Psh, flattery will get you nowhere,” He started, wondering if the heat in his cheeks could be blamed on the heat from the stove, “But I can’t blame you. Guess I’m just gonna’ have to start cooking for you all the time.”

“Now I didn’t mean anythin’ like–”

“No butts about it!”

“Heh,” Came a stifled snort from the next room, “Grunkle Stan said ‘butts’.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, stretching out on his tip-toes to kiss Stan’s cheek and wrap an arm around his waist. 

“Alright, if y’insist,” Fiddleford replied, unconsciously tracing little hearts into Stan’s side with his finger. “I s’ppose it only stands to reason that a chef should be as smokin’ as his food.”

Stan snorted, nearly spilling the contents of the pan as he attempted to transfer it to a plate.


End file.
